


Courting is Over

by Ariane_DeVere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief discussion of injury and mutilation, Drama, Humor, Major Character Deaths - apparently, Not OT3 - just friendship, Season 1 Compliant, Threat of violence with a knife, but all may not be as it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariane_DeVere/pseuds/Ariane_DeVere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Sawyer’s life was never the same after she met John Watson and his crazy flatmate. When the crazy flatmate’s <i>brother</i> came on the scene, life got <span class="u">really</span> weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was first written and posted on Livejournal in December 2011, just prior to the broadcast of Season 2. When I joined AO3 six months later I didn’t transfer this story across because I thought it would already be too dated. However, I recently re-read it and felt quite proud of it, so I thought, ‘What the heck? Maybe a couple of people who’ve not seen it before might like it.’ (And my thanks to those who encouraged me to re-post it when I asked if they thought it worth doing.) There are only a few minor revisions to the original story but it remains Season 1 compliant and basically takes place after the events of _The Great Game_.
> 
> Although it isn’t a major plot point of the whole story, I should still avoid the mistake I made when I last posted this, and therefore I must give the old warning which was almost obligatory back in those days: My fandom warns for het! If you really can’t stand the idea, you might want to head straight to the sequel to this story, [Courting Unending](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4652808/) which is almost stand-alone and which rights the horror of me pairing either of our heroes with a woman!
> 
> My renewed thanks to Verity Burns who performed a lite-beta on each chapter back in 2011.

Sarah sighed heavily and looked up at him. She genuinely did miss their occasional lunches and regretted the way that their tentative friendship had disintegrated over the past few months.

“I need to get this off my chest, Mycroft,” she told him sadly. “Let me say this to you, and then we can go our separate ways again.”

Mycroft didn’t turn towards her, continuing to look out of the window, but his body language indicated that he had relaxed a little. His chin dropped an inch or two, a conciliatory nod giving her permission to speak. Sarah drew in a slow breath, forcing herself not to tense up, and then fired the question at him.

“ _Where are John and Sherlock?_ ”

Mycroft flinched.

____________________________

It was fifteen weeks since Greg Lestrade had arrived at her flat to break the news that Sherlock and John were dead. Sarah had thought that her world couldn’t possibly spring any more shocks on her after her experiences since she had met John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, but Greg’s stricken expression was almost too much for her to take as he quietly explained how the boys had been killed in an explosion at an empty factory a few hours ago. The temptation simply to curl up whimpering on the sofa and rock herself to sleep would have been too much to resist if she hadn’t almost immediately been struck by a sense of absolute fury.

“Was it Moriarty?” she asked abruptly.

Greg hesitated for a long moment before answering. “It really is too soon to say,” he told her, “but let’s be honest: the chances are good. Sherlock had a lot of enemies but not many of them made a habit of using explosives.”

“Where was Mycroft?” she snapped.

Greg stared, surprised at her question.

“Where the hell was _Mycroft_?” she demanded again, then pushed past the inspector and ran out into the hall.

“Sarah!” Greg chased after her as she pulled open the entrance door and ran along the road to the nearest CCTV camera attached to one of the street lights. Glaring up into it she mouthed ‘Mycroft!’ clearly, then pointedly raised her hand to the side of her head, stretching out her thumb and little finger in the universal sign for ‘Call me.’ Greg arrived beside her and looked at her in confusion.

“Sarah ...”

“Why didn’t he get there in time?” she demanded, still glowering into the camera and holding her ‘Phone me’ position while she mouthed the name again. “He’s been watching the boys ever since the incident at the swimming pool – he should have _known_ they were walking into danger. Why wasn’t he there? And where is he now?”

Greg sagged a little as shock and exhaustion began to claim him. She turned and started to reach for him, her professionalism wanting to take over from the anger, but he straightened up and looked into her eyes.

“He’s at the morgue,” he told her softly. “He’s helping to identify the bodies.”

Sarah froze for a moment, then her hands dropped to her sides. “What do you mean, ‘helping to identify’ them?” she asked, although she feared that she already knew the answer.

He sighed unhappily. “It was an explosion, Sarah,” he said quietly. “Identifying them isn’t going to be straightforward.”

Sarah’s head slumped forward as the impact of Greg’s words struck home, then she slowly looked up into the camera, grimaced apologetically and raised her right arm, mouthing ‘Never mind’ as she repeatedly drew her fingers across her throat to cancel her earlier demand. “Oh God,” she whispered as the tears finally came. Greg put his arm around her shoulders as she began to sob, and gently led her back to the flat.

____________________________

She had first met Mycroft Holmes five weeks after the boys’ first encounter with Jim Moriarty. On that evening, all Sarah knew was that John hadn’t arrived at her flat like he was supposed to, and after a night of no response to her phone calls she went to Baker Street in the morning to find that neither John nor Sherlock were home. Their absence sent her into a panic and the local police were unhelpful and not prepared to file a Missing Persons report so soon. When John finally phoned her that evening her relief quickly turned to anger when he wouldn’t tell her where he and Sherlock had been or why he hadn’t called her before now, and she was still shouting angrily down the phone at him when he arrived at her front door pointedly holding his mobile away from his ear and wincing. Her fury instantly melted away and she broke down in tears as she pulled him inside the flat and hugged him tightly. He wrapped his arms around her and held her, murmuring, “I’m so sorry,” over and over while she wept.

Once she had cried herself out he walked her into the kitchen for the obligatory round of tea-making and he began to explain some of the events of the past few days. He had already had an argument with Sherlock about whether he should tell her anything and, if so, how much. John had pointed out to him that within a couple of days of meeting them she had been kidnapped and almost killed, yet she had not only been willing to let John keep his job at the surgery but had still been willing to associate with him socially _and_ – most importantly of all – she hadn’t told anybody about what had happened to her in the Tramway Tunnels that night. Sherlock had insisted to her that she shouldn’t talk about it to anyone but he had been surprised when she did as she was asked, and it had been the start of a begrudging respect that he developed for her. However, at this stage he was still reluctant for John to tell her about Moriarty or the string of puzzles he had set for Sherlock over the previous days and then his dramatic attempt to stop Sherlock from interfering in his work, but John insisted that she was trustworthy and would only keep fretting to know if he refused to tell her. Sherlock hadn’t been happy but had eventually agreed, and the only reason that John hadn’t said anything to her on the phone was because he wasn’t sure whether it was being monitored. But now John sat with her at the breakfast bar and told her ... well, it definitely wasn’t everything, Sarah soon realised, but he told her enough to leave her shaking her head in stunned disbelief and remarking, “God, I never realised that I was living in an episode of _Danger Mouse_.” John laughed hysterically for the next five minutes as the tension of the previous days made the joke seem far funnier than it probably was, but it was such a relief to have him back and safe – and giggling adorably – that she smiled and let him laugh himself into a coughing fit, and half an hour later she took him to bed for the first time.

Their relationship didn’t develop into a ‘normal’ one – John spent far too much of his time running around after Sherlock for him and Sarah to have a standard boyfriend/girlfriend relationship and sometimes she wouldn’t see him socially for days. They always kept in contact even if he didn’t have shifts at the surgery, and when he _was_ free they would go to a restaurant or to the cinema or go dancing, or would simply have a quiet meal at her flat and then watch a movie or the TV. The evenings didn’t always end with sex – sometimes John was too exhausted after days of helping Sherlock with a case and sometimes they just weren’t in the mood but the evenings that did end in bed were nice and while Sarah was reluctant to apply the term ‘friends with benefits’ to their relationship, it did seem to be going in that direction.

On other evenings John would be reluctant to leave Sherlock alone in their flat for fear that he would find a vital clue in an ongoing case and would rush off into danger on his own. The first evening that he invited Sarah to Baker Street to keep him company while Sherlock was engrossed in casework, Sherlock completely ignored her the whole time that she was there and didn’t speak a word to either of them; the second time she visited, he reluctantly grunted a greeting when she arrived and Sarah had the distinct impression that John had had a few words with him about common courtesy.

On her third visit Sherlock was sitting at the table in the living room and looking through the police photographs of a crime scene while John was in the kitchen cooking a meal for them. John had a habit of forgetting that anyone else was in the room while he was concentrating on his cooking and after several minutes of being ignored Sarah wandered out into the living room and stood looking at all the paperwork stuck to the walls. She hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant but when she turned towards Sherlock and opened her mouth, she remembered how irritated he had been with her the last time she had interrupted him, even though she _had_ eventually provided him with a vital clue.

Instead, she deliberately sat down at the table and simply watched what he was doing, forcing herself _not_ to ask the many questions that came into her mind as he moved the pictures around the table. He must have been impressed by her silence because after fifteen minutes of her sitting quietly and just observing him as he worked, he began to explain what he was seeing and even handed her one of the photos and asked her opinion of the wounds on the body. Sarah hid her proud smile but later that evening when she and John were washing up she said that she felt like going home and writing in the diary that she didn’t keep: “Today I finally arrived!” John hugged her and said that he had been nervous when he looked in from the kitchen and saw her sitting across the table from Sherlock, who had initially been fizzing with indignation at the intrusion; but he had diplomatically withdrawn and left the two of them alone and had almost exploded with delight when he heard Sherlock finally start to talk to her.

“I don’t even know who I was more proud of,” he continued. “You for facing up to him in the first place, or him for letting you in. I just want to strut around bragging to anyone who’ll listen that I did this!”

He pulled her closer and buried his mouth in her hair. “It also makes me bloody horny,” he growled in her ear.

Sarah didn’t go home that night.

It was over a week before she went to Baker Street again, but as she and John giggled their way into the flat laden down with bags of food from the Chinese takeaway, Sherlock looked up from the police report he was reading and remarked, “At this rate Mycroft will be kidnapping her for interrogation.”

John had just put his bags onto the kitchen table but now he turned and stared at him. “He wouldn’t,” he said in a voice full of dread.

Sherlock shrugged. “She’s becoming a regular visitor,” he said. “I’m surprised that he’s waited this long. He abducted _you_ after you’d been in the flat for less than four minutes.”

John dramatically buried his face in his hands. “Oh God, he _would_ , wouldn’t he?” he groaned before lifting his head and glaring at Sherlock. “You have to stop him.”

“Stop him from what?” Sarah asked. John had mentioned Mycroft and his fractious relationship with his brother but she had no idea what they were talking about here.

Sherlock smirked at her. “My brother tried to bribe John into reporting my activities to him shortly after we first met,” he told her, “and even though John turned him down he still pulls him in occasionally just to see if he can bully any information out of him. Now that you’re apparently becoming part of this happy band, he’ll probably try and _charm_ you into telling him what I’m up to.”

He looked at John. “And why you think that I can talk him out of it is beyond me. If I tell him to leave Sarah alone, he’ll only make a move more quickly.”

“Jesus,” John moaned. “Well then, _I’m_ telling him to lay off. He’s got no right.”

“He’s _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock told him. “He doesn’t _need_ to have a right.”

The pleasant meal that Sarah had been hoping for was somewhat spoiled by John spending the entire time venomously explaining what had happened during Mycroft’s first abduction of him. By then he had got up a real head of steam and went on to detail each of the following occasions, breaking off occasionally to rant to Sherlock about how annoying both he and his brother were. Sherlock seemed to find the whole conversation highly amusing but by the end of the conversation John had wound himself up so much that he left the room to phone Mycroft to demand that he leave Sarah alone. When he came back he was even more grumpy but refused to talk about the content of the phone call. He seemed fairly confident, however, that he had managed to persuade Mycroft that Sarah wasn’t sufficiently part of the Baker Street life to be able to impart any gossip about Sherlock’s activities even if she wanted to.

*********

The invitation for Sarah to join Mycroft for lunch was waiting for her on her desk at the surgery the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sarah asked her colleagues on the reception desk, nobody could tell her how the invitation had got there. John happened to be working at the surgery that day and when she went to his consulting room and presented him with the expensive-looking card with the beautifully handwritten request to meet that lunchtime, he groaned, lowered his head and banged it on the desk several times before Sarah, laughing at his despair, put her hand under his chin and pulled his head up.

“I’m going to go,” she told him. “I actually want to meet him and see what he’s going to try and offer me.”

John looked alarmed and she scowled at him. “I’m not going to _accept_ anything, idiot,” she told him. “But I’m curious about him now, and who knows – maybe he’ll give me a better understanding of Sherlock ... and maybe of _you_ as well.” She grinned at his indignant look. “He’s not going to harm me or make me disappear, is he? And maybe I can get us more of an insight into why he’s so protective of his brother.”

Her shift was due to end at midday but the invitation said that a car would collect her at half past one. Clearly Mycroft understood that the timetable of a G.P. was never set in stone and even with that additional time she had only just finished her paperwork for the day when the receptionist popped her head in and told her that Mr Holmes’ car was awaiting her. As Sarah put on her coat she realised that her hands were trembling; apparently she was less confident about this meeting than she had thought, and Sherlock’s ominous comments about how powerful and dangerous Mycroft could be were suddenly coming back to haunt her. She opened the door of her room and walked out into the reception, smiling a little when she saw John waiting for her at the entrance to the surgery with a stern look on his face.

“You’re not coming with me,” she told him.

“No, I thought you wouldn’t let me,” he sighed, “but I’m going to have a few words with Mycroft if he’s in the car, or with not-Anthea if it’s her.”

Sarah grinned at the name he had given to Mycroft’s assistant. He had told her about the woman who was frequently in the car which pulled up alongside him in the street when he was least expecting it, and her refusal to tell him her real name. John opened the surgery door and put a protective arm around Sarah’s shoulders as they approached the large black car parked nearby. When they got closer, the rear door opened and an attractive elegantly-dressed woman got out and smiled at them. John jolted with surprise.

“Oh!” he said quietly. “That’s not not-Anthea.”

Sarah began to giggle as she realised how ludicrous her situation was. She was about to get into a car with a woman who even her not-quite-boyfriend hadn’t seen before, and the car would take her god-knows-where to meet with a man who apparently pretty much ran the country single-handedly but couldn’t even manage to keep track of his own brother’s activities. The woman looked at her quizzically as Sarah’s laughter got louder and she shook her head apologetically and tried to get herself under control.

While she was fumbling in her handbag for a tissue to wipe her eyes, John stepped closer to the car and said quietly to not-not-Anthea, “Tell me you’re not taking her to some abandoned warehouse this time.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “As I understand it, Doctor Watson, we don’t always take _you_ to an abandoned warehouse.”

“Not always,” John said ruefully, “but I’ve already been to enough empty buildings in the middle of nowhere to last a lifetime, and I don’t think Sarah deserves that kind of treatment.”

“Don’t worry,” the woman reassured him. “I’m sure Mr Holmes has arranged a far more pleasant venue for this meeting and has no intention of intimidating Doctor Sawyer.”

“He never intimidated _me_ ...” John started to protest indignantly, then turned to Sarah when she put her hand on his arm.

“At ease, macho man,” she told him soothingly. “Get back to work. I’ve got a lunch date.” Kissing his cheek, she turned towards the car and smiled at the woman. “Shall we go?”

While John mumbled quiet threats behind them, the two women got into the back seat. The car pulled away from the kerb immediately and Sarah looked across to her travelling companion. “I’m Sarah,” she told her.

“Chloe,” the woman replied.

“Really?” Sarah asked.

“No, not really,” the woman said with a smile. “But ‘Anthea’ ...” she made air quotes around the name, “... started the trend and now we’re all doing it.” Her smile widened. “Whenever we’re accompanying foreign dignitaries we have an ongoing competition to come up with the most ridiculous names that we can get away with.” She grimaced. “‘Anthea’ is so inventive that she’s winning that one as well.”

Sarah grinned. “Do you know what John calls her?” she asked.

“Of course we do,” not-Chloe answered serenely.

Sarah began to relax.

*********

It was a little over twenty minutes later when the car pulled up in what looked to be a very exclusive part of London. Sarah, who – like many Londoners – had never got around to investigating her own city, had been hopelessly lost after the first few minutes of the journey and had quickly given up trying to work out where they were going. Despite Sherlock’s dark mutterings about his brother and John’s complaints about Mycroft’s arrogant treatment of him, she wanted to believe that she wasn’t about to disappear and never be seen again, or abandoned somewhere dangerous with no way of getting back to safety, and anyway this looked like much too posh an area to be far from the centre of the city.

Chloe escorted her into an elegant apartment building, showed a pass to the security desk and then led Sarah to the lifts. Calling one of them, she stepped inside and inserted a key into the panel before turning back to Sarah.

“Turn this to the left,” she instructed, “and when you leave the lift you need to turn right, right again and then walk straight on as far as you can go.” She stepped out of the lift and turned to face Sarah again, smiling encouragingly. “Have a lovely time,” she told her as the doors began to close, adding quickly, “He’s not so bad.”

Sarah grimaced nervously once she was alone but then steeled herself, reached out and turned the key. As she had already guessed that it would, the lift rose straight to the top floor and the doors opened inside what could only be the penthouse apartment. Taking the lift key with her, she stepped out and looked around nervously. She had never been inside a luxury flat and it was everything she would have expected: the huge floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall opened onto a large balcony revealing spectacular views over London while inside the open plan apartment the walls were beautifully decorated and all around was furniture that she could have spent the next several hours examining and admiring – and coveting – if she only had the opportunity. She was just wondering whether she dared take off her sandals and walk across the deep carpet barefoot when the lift doors slid closed behind her and reminded her why she was there.

‘Turn right and right again,’ Chloe had told her and so she turned and walked around the lift shaft, then stared in amazement when she realised that a second balcony on the other side of the apartment had been glassed over and turned into a hothouse. She shook her head in disbelief as she walked slowly into what was probably the world’s smallest jungle. She hadn’t thought that her world could get any more odd today, but to see so many lush green plants towering above her head was mind-boggling. She took a deep breath of the warm moist air, suppressing a giggle when she found herself thinking, ‘Am I going to get to the other side and find myself in Narnia?’ but then, remembering all the scary things that John and Sherlock had told her about Mycroft, she looked around the dark vegetation again and mentally added, ‘Actually, I’m more likely to meet the _Predator_ in here.’ 

Trying not to let herself get even more anxious, she continued along the walkway which divided the garden in two and after a few yards the hothouse ended and opened out onto the edge of the balcony where a wrought iron table and two chairs stood. A large silver tray on the table contained a teapot, creamy white crockery and a three tiered stand displaying an assortment of delicate sandwiches and cakes.

“Welcome to the winter garden, Doctor Sawyer,” said a man’s voice and Sarah turned and had her first sight of Mycroft Holmes. Tall and immaculately dressed, he radiated the same aura of superiority as his brother although she couldn’t immediately see much of a family likeness. His smile as he approached her didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How do you like the venue for our lunch?” he asked.

“It’s not every day I get to walk through a jungle at the top of a block of flats in the middle of London,” she remarked as she shook his offered hand while resisting a ludicrous temptation to curtsey. “And call me Sarah, because I’m not going to call you Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft’s smile became a little warmer. “Please, sit,” he said, indicating the nearby table.

She took one of the seats while Mycroft lifted the teapot and began to pour two cups of tea. Sarah noted a little sourly that she wasn’t being given any choice on what to drink. No doubt the intention was to keep her off-balance and anxious, but all that this behaviour was doing was encouraging her stubborn streak and so she deliberately settled more comfortably onto her chair and gestured back towards the apartment.

“Is this yours?” she asked.

“Regrettably, no, but I have use of it when the owner is away,” Mycroft told her.

“If I owned this, I’m not sure I would be able to tear myself away,” she said. “I could spend hours just admiring the furniture, let alone the views.” She gazed out over the panorama and sighed wistfully. “London is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “I never get a chance to appreciate it on the ground.”

“Why do you think Sherlock spends so much of his time on rooftops?” Mycroft asked with a smile as he handed her one of the cups. She looked at it a little suspiciously as she took it and Mycroft’s smile widened.

“It really isn’t drugged,” he assured her, sitting down with his own cup. “Would you like me to take a sip first?”

She shrugged, then added a spoonful of sugar to her tea. “You’re probably immune to iocaine powder anyway,” she told him.

Mycroft let out a brief laugh. “Ah, _The Princess Bride_ ,” he said. “Such a delightful book. But iocaine powder would kill you, and I can’t think of any reason why I should want to do that when we’ve only just met. And you haven’t even tried the food yet.”

He offered her a tea plate and gestured towards the stand. She didn’t really feel like eating but politely took a couple of sandwiches and a cupcake, then watched while Mycroft filled his own plate with half a dozen sandwiches and two of the cakes. He glanced across to her and grimaced apologetically.

“Breaking the diet again, I’m afraid,” he said. “No doubt Sherlock will be delighted if you tell him.”

“What you eat is none of Sherlock’s business,” Sarah told him, “and it’s not as if you’re overweight, so the occasional lapse isn’t going to hurt.” She smirked at him. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

Mycroft’s delighted laugh sounded much more relaxed this time, and the conversation moved on easily as Sarah nibbled cautiously at her lunch and Mycroft tucked in more heartily. They talked about neutral topics such as some of the locations which could be seen from the balconies, and when she asked about the apartment he told her how the entire floor of the flat had been raised twenty inches and then the balcony reinforced to take the depth and weight of the soil for the plants. As they continued to chat, Sarah felt confident enough to take charge of the teapot and top up both of their tea cups. It was a surprisingly relaxed and comfortable lunch considering the circumstances but eventually, once Mycroft had finished off his last cupcake with a contented look on his face, Sarah put down her plate and leaned forward.

“All right,” she said firmly. “The courting’s over. Let’s get down to business.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her.

“Don’t give me that ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ look,” she said with a scowl. “What do you want from me, and why do you think I’m going to _give_ you what you want?”

“My dear Doc... Sarah,” Mycroft corrected himself. “It seems that you’ve been spending far too much time with Sherlock, and now you think that everything is a conspiracy.”

His bemused expression didn’t fool her for a moment. “You don’t fool me for a moment,” she told him. “Everything you’ve done today has been deliberately designed to keep throwing me off balance. The invitation was scary, then you sent Chloe to be friendly on the journey here so that I wouldn’t feel so intimidated.” She gestured towards the apartment. “You knew that such a beautiful place, and especially such an unexpected thing as the garden, would distract and confuse me again; then you lull me into another false sense of security with a nice lunch and pleasant conversation. So it can only be time for the attack again, and I’d like to get it over with, please. What do you _want_ , Mycroft?”

She didn’t yet know the man well enough to be certain of his facial expressions but when she thought about it later Sarah liked to believe that Mycroft looked at her with just a hint of admiration as he quirked another smile at her.

“You’ve had far too much advance warning for me to be able to intimidate you, cajole or even flatter you into acting as my Baker Street spy,” he said, “so I was rather hoping that I might use old-fashioned explanation instead.”

Sarah leaned forward again. “I don’t really know what Sherlock gets up to, you know,” she said. “I’ve not known him all that long, and even John doesn’t tell me much about their activities when they’re on a case.”

“I’m not asking you to be my spy, Sarah,” Mycroft told her. “If you gave any indication that you would be willing to come to me and tell me what my brother is doing, my next action would be to tell John that you cannot be trusted and that he should keep you away from Sherlock in future.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe that you would do that, and neither am I asking you to. But I worry about Sherlock, and you must know by now that our relationship is rather complicated.”

His gaze became distant and reflective, and Sarah tried hard to work out whether he was putting on a performance for her or was genuinely as concerned as he looked. After a moment he focussed again and looked at her seriously.

“Sherlock would be reluctant to ask me for help even if his life or John’s depended on it but I’m concerned that one day he’ll step into a situation from which I could have saved him, and I would never forgive myself if I could have been warned in time to protect him. All I’m asking is that if you should ever see such a situation arising, you think about whether ‘telling tales out of school,’ as it were, might just save their lives.”

Sarah sat back and looked at him for a few seconds before speaking. “I will consider it,” she said, “but you must know that I will never tell you anything that would be a breach of confidentiality, even if it _is_ something that might help Sherlock in the long run.” She sighed. “I don’t even want to _think_ of a time when I would need to come to you behind his back in order to save his life; but I will consider what you’ve asked.”

Mycroft smiled gratefully and she leaned forward again before he could speak. “You’re wrong about one thing,” she told him. “He would ask for your help if _John’s_ life depended on it.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re absolutely right, of course,” he said, “and it’s why I trust John so implicitly with my brother’s well-being. They make a good team. I was surprised when they became friends so quickly and easily but I was pleased that Sherlock had finally found someone who would tolerate his ... unusual lifestyle.”

Sarah looked at him shrewdly. “But Sherlock’s friendship with John has taken him even further away from you, hasn’t it?” she said. “Now that he’s got John to dig him out of trouble, he doesn’t have to turn to you for help any more, am I right?”

Mycroft pursed his lips ruefully. “John’s presence _has_ made it even less likely that Sherlock would need to ask for my assistance,” he admitted, “but his safety is my first priority; and I am genuinely pleased that he’s more content and settled since John moved in with him.”

He hesitated before continuing. “In some ways, keeping John happy is as much of a concern to me as monitoring Sherlock’s state of mind. John made it clear as soon as we met that he would never betray any confidences to me, but I meet with him every now and then ...” He tilted his head when Sarah widened her eyes indignantly. “Very well: I bring him in every now and then to check his mood and to ascertain if there’s anything I need to do, or to say to Sherlock, to keep John content.”

“And _that’s_ why I’m here!” Sarah declared triumphantly. “This ‘Will you keep an eye on Sherlock for me?’ routine is nonsense – you _knew_ I would never spy on him, and you wouldn’t waste time asking for something you know you’re never going to get. You’re not trying to recruit me at all; you’re checking me out to see whether I’m going to take John away from Sherlock.”

Mycroft flinched slightly, then he bowed his head to her in acknowledgement. “Doctor Sawyer, I applaud you,” he said respectfully. “Sherlock’s deductive skills really are beginning to rub off on you.”

“Sherlock couldn’t have taught me how to work this out if he’d tried,” Sarah snorted. “You’ve got _one_ thing in common with your brother – you don’t spend enough time with real, normal people and so you don’t understand us properly.”

Strangely, a wave of sympathy for the two brothers suddenly manifested itself and she found herself wondering just what kind of odd childhood they must have had in order to make them so very distanced from the rest of the world.

“Mycroft,” she told him more gently, “you can’t force John to stay with Sherlock. If you ever tried, you’d be more likely to drive him away. Right now, John’s not going anywhere but if he _did_ decide that he had to leave – for whatever reason – neither Sherlock nor you and all your assistants and the entire British government could stop him. And if you think that preventing him from getting close to anyone else is the way to keep him at Sherlock’s side, you really need to think again. You said yourself that Sherlock’s lifestyle is unusual – John has adapted really well to it and even thrives on it most of the time but he needs to be ‘ordinary’ sometimes. He needs to go for a pint with old Army friends, or with his mates from school or from Bart’s; he needs to go and watch the football with Greg Lestrade and Toby Gregson on a Saturday afternoon, or visit his sister and argue with her for hours and then come home furious and complaining that it was a waste of a day. It’s his way of recharging so that he’s ready to handle all the complications of living with someone like your brother.”

She lowered her chin and looked over the top of an imaginary pair of glasses at Mycroft. “And he needs to be allowed to date if he wants to,” she told him severely. In response to his startled gaze, she added, “Especially when it’s someone like me who – for God knows what reason – seems to have also managed to accept the craziness that surrounds your brother without too much fuss. I nearly got killed the first night I met him but I’m still here, aren’t I?”

This time she had no doubt that the smile which Mycroft gave her was genuine. “Indeed you are,” he told her warmly, “and I believe that both John _and_ Sherlock are very lucky to have you in their lives.”

“Don’t overdo it,” she threatened. “I’m not sure I’m ready to cope with you being nice to me.” She grinned at his indignant look and held up a placatory hand before he could protest. “Yes, you’ve been lovely,” she said with a deliberately insincere expression. “And the gorgeous location and the amazing view and the nice lunch almost made up for the kidnapping and the interrogation, but I’m going to be absolutely honest with you, Mycroft: I really have just about reached the limits of my courage for today and I’m either going to burst into tears or have a ridiculous and inappropriate fit of the giggles very shortly, so may I please go now?”

She took a shaky breath as Mycroft looked at her with concern, then he stood and extended his hand to her. She took it and leaned on it slightly as she stood up, then he drew back and gestured towards the winter garden.

“You were free to leave at any time, Sarah,” he said while they walked into the hothouse. “You never needed my permission, but I’m very glad that you stayed for as long as you did. It has been an interesting conversation and I’m grateful to you for your insight.”

He escorted her across the apartment to the lift and pushed the button, then turned to face her and offered his hand again for her to shake. As she took it, he gently placed his other hand over hers. “I would very much like to invite you to lunch again,” he told her. “Not to interrogate you or demand information about my brother’s latest misdemeanours, but if you would be willing to give me more of your insights into what you described as ‘real, normal’ people, that would be delightful.”

Sarah grimaced. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything by that.” Mycroft waved dismissively, but she frowned when a thought struck her. “You’re not just chatting me up in an attempt to make John jealous, are you? Because he probably knows as many ways to kill a man as you do and I don’t really want to have to patch up either one of you, _or_ help to hide the body.”

Mycroft put on a pompous expression. “I can assure you, Doctor Sawyer, that my intentions are strictly kidnapping, conversation and lunch – and nothing more,” he told her.

Sarah had caught her breath again by now and she smiled at him affectionately. “You can kidnap me any time, Mycroft,” she told him, but then quickly added, “and when I say ‘any time,’ I actually mean that it would be nice if you gave me twenty-four hours’ notice in future. And next time phone and ask me properly instead of sending one of your ninjas to sneak an invitation onto my desk.”

Mycroft laughed delightedly. “I shall most definitely ‘ask properly’ next time,” he promised, then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card which he handed to her. “And this is my number just in case you ever _do_ need to report to me behind Sherlock’s back.”

Sarah suppressed a shiver as she realised the seriousness of any reason why she would ever need to do such a thing. The lift arrived and Mycroft gestured her in, remaining outside as she turned to face him.

“Thank you for a lovely lunch,” she told him. “It’s been ... totally surreal, but I think I enjoyed it anyway.”

“I look forward to meeting you again, Sarah,” he replied with a smile. “And good luck with the interrogation you’ll get from Sherlock and John when they see you later today.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned, and reached out to turn the key in the lift panel. Mycroft’s smile turned utterly wicked just as the doors began to close and she giggled a little as the lift descended to the ground floor.

Chloe was waiting just outside the lift and Sarah quirked an eyebrow at her as she walked out to join her. “You were right – he’s not so bad,” she said.

Chloe smiled and led her towards the entrance. “Where would you like me to take you?” she asked.

Sarah considered going straight home to mull over her strange afternoon but realised that Mycroft was right – John and Sherlock were going to insist on knowing everything that had happened and it would probably be better to get it over with, then she could go back to her flat and have a long leisurely bath and a _very_ large glass of red wine. “Can we go to Baker Street?” she asked as they approached the car.

“Of course,” Chloe replied.

The shakes finally hit Sarah as the car began its journey back across town. Chloe diplomatically pretended not to notice.


	3. Chapter 3

Just as the car reached Baker Street, Sarah realised that John wouldn’t be back from the surgery yet. If she’d been thinking straight she would have already remembered, and now she wondered whether to ask to be taken back home but decided to brave it out and rang the doorbell. By the time she realised that Sherlock either wasn’t in or was ignoring the bell, the car had driven away and she was about to stomp off to the nearby Tube station when Mrs Hudson came around the corner with her shopping bag. They went indoors together and the landlady escorted her upstairs to check whether Sherlock was indeed around, but a quick search found that he had gone out and left all the doors unlocked – _again_ , as it was something John complained about on a regular basis.

Just as Sarah was about to go back downstairs with Mrs Hudson her phone beeped with a text message from John telling her that Sherlock was bouncing up and down outside his consulting room window like an over-excited Great Dane puppy while repeatedly texting him to come out and accompany him on his latest investigation. John continued that he hoped she had already escaped safely from Mycroft and promised to call her as soon as possible. Sarah smiled and explained to Mrs Hudson that her tenants wouldn’t be home for a while, and she was about to head for the stairs when the older lady spoke up.

“I don’t think they’d mind if you stayed and waited for them, do you?” She smiled at Sarah a little wickedly. “You don’t strike me as the sort who’ll search their rooms and rummage through all their unmentionables while you’re alone.”

Sarah giggled. “I dread to think what sort of unmentionables might be in Sherlock’s room,” she said, “so I’m not going to have any problem resisting that temptation!”

She offered to make a drink for both of them and texted John from the kitchen telling him where she was, then the women sat and chatted for a while until Mrs Hudson went back downstairs to prepare for her bingo night. Once she had gone Sarah began to feel the impact of the day creeping up on her and, after struggling to stay awake for a while, she eventually curled up on the sofa and let herself drift off to sleep.

She was awoken several hours later by the sound of feet thundering up the stairs accompanied by John’s happy giggle. Opening her eyes just as they arrived in the living room she looked up to be greeted with the sight of the two of them panting breathlessly, covered in mud, dripping wet, and grinning like a couple of school kids whose recent escapade had been the most brilliant adventure ever. “My boys,” she murmured affectionately, then got up to tend to the newly acquired cut over John’s left eye.

They were ‘my boys’ in her mind from that day on. Sherlock would always throw her a withering look whenever she used the term out loud, but John found it totally endearing.

After the boys had cleaned themselves up and ordered in enough takeaway to feed at least six people, they obviously wanted to know everything about her afternoon with Mycroft but now that she had the chance to talk about it, she found herself not wanting to tell them too much, feeling a strange sense of loyalty to the man who – after all – really did appear simply to have his brother’s best interests at heart. In an attempt to distract them, she told them about the amazing apartment she had been taken to – although the moment she started talking about the interior, Sherlock’s expression darkened and he muttered, “Victor’s place,” unhappily. He refused to elucidate when John looked quizzically at him, and Sarah continued to babble about the winter garden and the journeys with not-Chloe until she couldn’t sidetrack them any longer and John’s repeated demand of “But what did he _want_?” was starting to become annoying.

“He just wanted to talk,” she snapped a little irritably. “He knew I wouldn’t be his spy but he still wanted to just chat about Sherlock and you, and he didn’t want to know anything confidential and I didn’t _tell_ him anything confidential.”

John looked taken aback at her vehemence and she calmed down a little.

“I think he’s lonely,” she said, ignoring Sherlock’s snort as she turned to him. “Does he have a lot of friends?”

“How should I know?” Sherlock shrugged.

“Very helpful – thank you,” she told him sarcastically. “Anyway, he’s asked if we can have lunch occasionally, and I’ve agreed.”

John drew in a sharp breath and she turned back to him. “Easy, tiger,” she said soothingly. “He has guaranteed me that his only intentions are conversation and sandwiches, and the occasional cup cake. Your terrible secrets will forever be safe with me, and if you even think about trying to forbid me, John Watson, we’re going to have a very big argument indeed.”

She scowled fiercely at him and although he tried to look stern as he returned her gaze, he couldn’t hold the expression for long and eventually laughed ruefully and pulled her into his arms.

“I don’t have the foggiest idea whether you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known or whether you’re playing right into his plans,” he told her, “but right now all I want to do is cuddle the stuffing out of you.”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation and stood up. “I’m going to bed,” he said.

**********

Later, Sarah couldn’t even find the words to describe the next few months of her life. There were times when she stood back for a moment and stared in awe at what was happening to her. Her not-quite-a-relationship with John became warmer and more affectionate as they shared more experiences of and with his lunatic flatmate, while their times alone and away from him were precious and rare and then eventually tinged with a realisation that after a while they were actually _missing_ the lunatic flatmate. Occasionally they even persuaded the lunatic to come out for a meal with them, and neither of them minded as much as they ought to if he ruined the experience by loudly discussing gory details from recent cases while they were trying to eat.

Sarah had three more lunches with Mycroft, each at a different location but each of the venues strange and unusual enough to be a fascinating topic of conversation in its own right – and while he was always interested in anything she had to say about Sherlock or John, he would never push for information that she didn’t want to supply. It didn’t stop him kidnapping John occasionally, who would complain bitterly afterwards that he was still being dragged off to empty warehouses and other spooky abandoned places and yet was never offered so much as a bag of crisps.

Meanwhile John introduced her to Greg and Toby, the two football-mad detective inspectors with whom he spent many a Saturday afternoon either on a freezing terrace at a local home game or sitting in a warm pub shouting at the telly and _wishing_ that they were there on the freezing terrace. Sarah politely declined the invitations to join them at the matches but was happy to sit in the pub with them, especially when Toby’s wife Hilary came along; and the women struck up a friendship shared by most ‘football widows’ who might as well not have been there when the timing of the referee’s last visit to the optician required detailed discussion.

She didn’t spend _all_ of her free time with John; sometimes they wouldn’t see each other for over a week if he was busy with Sherlock or if she had other people to visit. In the same way that she had told Mycroft how John needed an occasional release from the insanity of life at Baker Street, she made a deliberate point of going out with her own friends at least two or three times a month, although after a while she discovered that sometimes she was struggling to enjoy the typical banter and was missing Sherlock’s intensity and John’s concentration while he tried to keep up with his flatmate’s line of thinking. The first time that she was out with her friends and received a text message from Sherlock demanding clarification on a particular medical condition, she laughed with such delight that one of the girls squealed and asked if John had just proposed. When she realised a couple of hours later that she had probably been more excited at receiving Sherlock’s text than she would have been if John _had_ proposed, she paused and waited to be shocked at the revelation ... then shrugged and simply accepted it as just another weird thing in the day of the life of a friend of Sherlock Holmes.

She wasn’t quite so relaxed about it when, a few days later, she was dragged out of her bath by repeated ringing on her intercom and found Sherlock staring into the one-way camera and demanding that she buzz him in immediately. When he reached her front door he was indignant that she wouldn’t open it, snorting that it was obvious that she was hiding behind the door in just a bath towel but then insisting that she get dressed quickly and come with him.

“Sherlock!” she protested. “I’m ...”

“Three minutes,” he interrupted. “I’ll wait in the taxi.” And with that, he swirled away again.

It wasn’t worth even _considering_ a refusal, she realised, and despite her irritation she climbed into the cab with wet hair two minutes and forty six seconds later. Sherlock nodded approvingly, then told her during the journey that Lestrade had called him to a crime scene, there were two dead bodies and John had absolutely refused to come home from Harry’s to assist him. Sherlock sounded almost hurt as he relayed verbatim the phone conversation that had ensued, and Sarah had to hide her giggles when he did a more than passable impression of John’s fractious tone.

But again it was only later, after she had had to crawl around under a table with Sherlock to examine one of the bodies and then had noticed and shown him some inconsistencies with the injuries on the other which had produced his trademark “Oh!” as the clues fell into place in his brain, and after he had rattled off a long list of deductions and instructions to Greg and then swanned off out of the room, and after Greg had chased after him to stop him leaving in the taxi without her, and after Sherlock had dropped her off at her flat with a murmured, “You did well tonight,” that she sat down on her sofa and stared ahead of herself in amazement at how calmly and rationally she had just dealt with such a bizarre situation. As a G.P., it was only very occasionally that she was required to be in the same room as a dead body and yet she had followed Sherlock’s instructions and done the job required of her without hesitation.

And so her life was strange and wonderful and weirdly inexplicable to others. It was mostly fun, though occasionally harrowing ... She could definitely have done without the time when, approaching her flat one evening after a late surgery session, she was abruptly grabbed from behind by a man who spun her around and slammed her back against the wall while glaring at her angrily.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes’ bird,” he said. “I’ve seen yer with him and that other bloke he hangs around with.” He leaned closer, huffing foul breath into her face. “Holmes put my brother in prison. Let’s see how he likes it when someone messes with _his_ friends.”

Pulling out a flick-knife, he waved it in front of her face several times. “If I cut your face to bits, d’you think it might make me feel better?” he asked her, then immediately answered himself. “Yeah, I think it might. An’ it might make Holmes think twice before he stitches up other people in future.”

Sarah’s gaze had been rapidly flicking to either side in the faint hope that somebody may be approaching or even looking out of a window but she knew that her street was fairly quiet at this time of night. She looked up desperately at the CCTV camera on a nearby street light but knew that the chances weren’t good that anyone was watching the feed from that particular camera at this very moment. Suddenly she was furious.

“Did he do the crime?” she demanded. The man looked surprised and she pressed her advantage. “Did your brother do the crime?” she asked again even more firmly.

“What the bloody hell has _that_ got to do with it?” he asked stupidly, but the hand holding the knife was starting to droop and she went on the attack again in a bid to keep him distracted.

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t ‘stitch people up’,” she said firmly. “He tracks down genuine criminals. If your brother did something illegal and got caught for it, then whose fault is it that he’s in prison?”

The man gawped at her in disbelief, then launched into a long rant about how his brother didn’t deserve this, and if only that stupid Holmes hadn’t come along, then his brother wouldn’t have been caught because the police didn’t have the first bleedin’ clue, and how she didn’t understand what it was like and his brother was a good bloke ... It was a complete stream of self-contradictory rubbish and finally Sarah had had enough.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, you can still visit him!” she interrupted him. “And unless he committed murder, presumably he’ll be out again one day. And then maybe you can have a conversation with him about his bloody _life choices_!” She glared up into his face furiously. “And if he _did_ commit murder, then it’s no surprise that he’s in prison!”

There was a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. She tilted her head slightly to get a better view without taking her eyes off her assailant, and before the man could draw a breath to argue with her again she deliberately leaned closer to him.

“If you get away, tell your brother and everyone else you know that the friends of Sherlock Holmes are protected.”

He frowned. “Protected?” he repeated blankly.

Sarah pointedly shifted her gaze to her right. The man turned his head to see what she was looking at and jolted in surprise at the sight of the black van which was slowly and silently rolling towards them even as various reassuringly large men began to climb out of it.

“Run,” Sarah said flatly.

Fortunately for her, he was too startled to consider the merits of using her as a hostage or a shield and he instantly released her and raced off with most of the men in pursuit. Sarah resisted the urge to yell, “ _Run_!” after him and instead turned to the team leader who was approaching her.

“Do you need an ambulance, Doctor Sawyer?” he asked her.

“No, I’m fine,” she said a little shakily. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“I’m already home,” she told him, gesturing down the street. “How did you get here so quickly?”

The man gestured up to the CCTV camera. “Mr Holmes likes to keep an eye on his brother’s friends,” he explained. “This isn’t the first time that one of you has been endangered.”

He offered her his arm. “May I escort you home, ma’am?” he asked, and once again Sarah didn’t know whether to dissolve into tears of laughter or just into tears.

And still she didn’t consider for one moment whether her life might be better if she extricated herself from John’s and Sherlock’s insane world. She was beginning to understand John’s addiction to the danger and the crazy hours and Sherlock’s ludicrous demands – and she wouldn’t give her boys up even if somebody offered her a huge amount of money _and_ Victor’s flat to do so.

She kept Mycroft’s phone number in her handbag at all times but found that she couldn’t bring herself to programme it into her phone. On the couple of occasions she thought about doing so, she got the giggles as she imagined her phone melting down into a puddle of components and goo two minutes afterwards. Whenever she came across the card in her purse it always gave her a flash of anxiety about what sort of terrible situation might force her to use it, but strangely she also had a small sense of comfort that it was there if she _did_ need it.

But before she ever needed to call the number, Greg arrived at her flat to tell her that her boys were dead.

 

**********

 

Sarah met Harriet Watson eight days after John and Sherlock had been killed. The nature of the deaths had resulted in a great deal of complicated forensic investigation, most notably detailed DNA testing and attempts to match dental records. Even throwing her medical credentials around, Sarah hadn’t been able to persuade any of the appropriate authorities to tell her anything but Greg had kept her up to date as far as he was permitted and had also reassured her that the police had notified John’s sister and were keeping her apprised of developments. Mycroft, however, had apparently disappeared off the planet and even though Sarah had first started ringing the number on his business card two days after the explosion and every day afterwards, sometimes calling more than once, the phone had only ever been answered on one occasion when a female voice – it didn’t sound like Chloe’s – had informed her that Mr Holmes wasn’t currently available to speak to her but would call when he could. Every other time she tried the number, it simply kept ringing until she gave up.

One week after the boys’ deaths, a man was waiting outside the surgery as she left and told her that Mr Holmes had sent him to ask if she would be good enough to go to the Baker Street flat the following morning to have a conversation with him and with Doctor Watson’s sister. The man – who didn’t bother giving his name – requested that she arrive at eleven o’clock. Numbly she agreed and the man nodded politely before turning and walking away without a further word.

By the following morning she was furious, and deliberately went to the flat over half an hour before the appointed time. She had no intention of arriving later than Mycroft and having to walk into his presence like some kind of petitioner. Her anger was softened by the sadness on Mrs Hudson’s face as she let her in and the women hugged each other for a long while in the hallway. Sarah had spoken with her on the phone the day after the explosion but had been so busy with the surgery – and with her own grieving – that she hadn’t had the opportunity to visit, and now she felt horribly guilty. She comforted her as best as she could and then made her way up to the flat but stopped partway up the second flight of stairs, her throat tightening at the sight of the closed doors ahead of her. They had always been open whenever she visited, even on the occasion when both the boys had been out, and to see the flat closed up like that brought her close to tears. She swallowed them down and opened the door to the living room, gritting her teeth against the pain as the familiar room was revealed, quiet and still and musty after over a week of non-use. Forcing her grief not to overwhelm her, she sat at the table and tried to make her mind go blank and not relive her times there.

Harry Watson arrived twenty minutes later and was shown up by Mrs Hudson who then scurried back downstairs to make some tea. The familiar face was upsetting: Harry’s short blonde hair, dark blue eyes and even the shape of her nose were far too similar to her brother’s and once again Sarah had to swallow hard to stop herself from crying. Nevertheless, Sarah studied Harriet carefully as the two of them shook hands. After many previous attempts to stop drinking, each of which had failed after only a few weeks, Harry had been sober for the last four months and it had been her self-enforced struggle towards sobriety which had frequently made her even more irritable than usual with her brother. With this recent tragedy Sarah wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Harry had taken a spectacular swan dive off the wagon but she saw no sign of the other woman being either drunk or hungover. She was quiet and answered all Sarah’s attempts at conversation with brief replies but it seemed that she was withdrawn only because she was still in shock over her brother’s death.

When the downstairs door knocker sounded at two minutes to eleven, both of them jumped nervously. While Mrs Hudson answered the door and a quiet conversation ensued downstairs, Sarah stood up again and waited in trepidation but Harry, slumped on the sofa, just looked up disinterestedly when Mycroft eventually came up the stairs. He walked straight over to Harry and offered her his hand to shake.

“Ms Watson, I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. May I extend my sympathies to you on your loss,” he said politely.

“Likewise,” Harry mumbled, and Mycroft turned to Sarah.

“My dear Sarah, I do apologise for not being able to speak with you before now,” he told her as he clasped her hand. His eyes, she noticed, didn’t quite meet her own and he gently but firmly pulled his hand clear of hers almost immediately and took a step back.

“Tea?” she asked, gesturing towards the tray which Mrs Hudson had brought up earlier.

“Regrettably no,” he said, not looking regretful at all. “I’m afraid I have many appointments which I am unable to avoid today and so I must make this visit brief.”

He looked across to Harry in order to include her in the conversation.

“I have been informed that Sherlock’s and John’s bodies will be released the day after tomorrow and that permission has been granted for their funerals to take place,” he told them.

“There’ll need to be an inquest,” Sarah said tersely. “With the way that they died, it’s bound to be a complicated case.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, “but I have been ... assured that all the necessary information and evidence has now been obtained and that the funerals do not have to wait until after the inquest.” His implication was clear that he had pulled a few hundred strings to facilitate the release, but Sarah was past caring.

“So how are we going to do this?” she asked. Mycroft raised an enquiring eyebrow at her and she sighed. “I mean, are we having both funerals together, or one after the other, or what?” She grimaced apologetically at Harry. “Do you know whether John wanted to be buried or cremated?”

Mycroft looked uncomfortable while Harry shrugged. “We never talked about it,” she said quietly. “But he’d probably prefer to be cremated.”

Sarah nodded her agreement. “We should at least have the funerals on the same day,” she said. “They had a lot of friends and colleagues in common. What do you think about a joint ceremony if that can be arranged? I know John wasn’t very religious, and I imagine that Sherlock wasn’t ...” she looked at Mycroft for confirmation but he didn’t react, “... so could we think about having a single service which celebrates their lives and where anyone can speak either about just one or both of them? What do you think?”

Harry shrugged again, then raised her eyes to Sarah’s and visibly tried to pull herself together. “It’s a good idea,” she said. “I think John would like that. And then ...” She broke off for a moment, clearly struggling with the thought which had just occurred to her. Eventually she took a sharp breath through her nose and pressed her lips tightly together to bring herself under control before forcing herself to continue. “Afterwards, maybe they could be scattered together, or side by side or something.”

“Oh,” Sarah whispered, tears flooding into her eyes. “Oh my goodness, Harry, that’s a beautiful idea.”

She turned to Mycroft, looking for his approval. His expression was bland but she knew instantly that something wasn’t right and she narrowed her eyes as the realisation hit her. “You’re taking Sherlock away, aren’t you?” she said abruptly.

Mycroft flinched. It was just the tiniest of jolts but clearly he had once again been startled by the speed of her deduction. She took a step towards him. “ _Tell_ me,” she said dangerously.

He straightened his spine as he recovered from his surprise. “I shall be taking Sherlock home to the family vault in Gloucestershire,” he told her. “He will be interred alongside our parents, grandparents and several previous generations of the Holmes family.”

Sarah opened her mouth but Mycroft’s expression became stern. “Do not attempt to debate this decision with me, Sarah.”

“No.”

The vehement response was a shock to both Mycroft and Sarah and they looked across to Harry as she stood up from the sofa and walked over to Sarah’s side before turning to face Sherlock’s brother.

“No,” she repeated. “You can’t have him.”

“Ms Watson ...” Mycroft began but she interrupted him instantly.

“You can’t take him away from John. They meant everything to each other. All that John ever talked about was Sherlock.” She threw an apologetic glance at Sarah. “ _Almost_ all. ‘Sherlock did this ... Sherlock said that ... He’s the most annoying person I’ve ever known ... He dragged me out of bed at two in the morning and then we got chased round the warehouse ... We had to fight off four big blokes and then we fell in the river ... It was _brilliant_.’ I hadn’t seen him that happy in ... _ever_.”

She gazed at Mycroft intensely. “You didn’t see John when he came back from overseas. He was _broken_. I don’t mean his shoulder, either. _He_ was broken.” She shivered at the memory. “Even when I was completely bladdered I could see how damaged he was. Actually, he was _more_ than damaged – he was dying. He was going to kill himself any day soon, and it scared me so much because I couldn’t do anything to stop him. And I don’t mean he was going to use that bloody gun that he got hold of.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and Harry nodded.

“I knew about the gun – I found it in his desk at the bedsit when I visited him there once. He’d mentioned this blog that his shrink had told him to write, but I didn’t know whether he had actually written anything and if he’d said anything about me ... Well, I was half-drunk and I started looking for his laptop when he went to the bathroom, and that’s when I saw the pistol in the drawer. We shouted at each other for about an hour when I told him I’d seen it, but he wouldn’t give it up.”

She sighed. “In the end I realised that he would never shoot himself – he wasn’t that much of a coward. He would probably go out looking for a gang mugging an old lady, or a group of thugs breaking into a shop or something and then he’d pick a fight with them.” Her voice shook as she continued. “And he wouldn’t fight back as hard as he could, and would let them kick him to death or knife him. At least that way he’d die trying to do something good.”

She drew herself up and stared at Mycroft, tilting her chin forward in a stubborn manner that Sarah recognised. “Sherlock saved his life. He gave him a reason to keep on living. And even though they couldn’t save each other this time, you’re not separating them now. You _can’t_.”

Mycroft began to open his mouth but Sarah was faster. “They lived _and died_ together, Mycroft,” she said. “I respect your wish to maintain tradition, I honestly do, but if you’re going to take Sherlock to your family’s place, then you’ll have to take John as well, and if your ancestors are annoyed at the invasion of a non-Holmes, then I’m sorry but they’ll have to tolerate it.”

She realised that she hadn’t even sought Harry’s approval of this suggestion but Harriet was already nodding on the edge of her peripheral vision. Again Mycroft tried to speak but again Sarah butted in rapidly. “And if you do take both of them, then you’ll have to give Harry twenty-four hour access to the estate so that she can visit her brother whenever she wants to. And there’ll be others as well as me who’ll want to visit John and Sherlock’s resting place. You can’t just lock them away behind a fence or inside a crypt.”

Her tears were coming now but she ignored them and let them fall while she continued making her point even as Mycroft’s lips began to press together stubbornly.

“I don’t imagine that Sherlock believed in an afterlife or Heaven or anything like that, and I’m sure that John didn’t, so it’s never going to matter to them. But it matters to everyone else, Mycroft. It matters so _much_. The guys at Scotland Yard didn’t tease the boys about being an item because they actually believed it – they said it because they were hardly ever apart, and because they were more like an old married couple than some _real_ old married couples are. Toby and Greg used to make a big deal of it if John managed to get through a football match without getting at least a text, if not a phone call from Sherlock. They were inseparable when they were alive, and you _can’t_ separate them now.”

Her throat tightened and she stopped to swallow. Harry stepped in again.

“Actually, it _is_ going to matter to John what happens to him now,” she said as she tilted her head up again and met Mycroft’s eyes when they flickered across to her. “He wouldn’t care where he’s buried, or where his ashes are scattered ... but if there is any kind of life or awareness after death, he’s going to come back and haunt the heck out of you if you won’t let him be with Sherlock.”

“They knew each other for less than a year, but they saved each other’s life all the time,” Sarah continued. “They were each other’s guardian, and they would want to continue to guard each other after death.”

Mycroft’s surly expression was beginning to loosen a little. Harry reached out and put her hand on his arm.

“You can take your brother home if you want to, Mr Holmes,” she told him, “but you’re not leaving John behind. _Sherlock_ isn’t leaving John behind – and he wouldn’t ever forgive you if you forced him to, would he?”

The brief twitch of Mycroft’s lips had no humour in it whatsoever but Sarah recognised the look of respect which he directed to Harry. He glanced across at Sarah before speaking.

“Did the two of you really only meet fifteen minutes ago?” he asked. “It seems as if you have worked together for years.”

“We’re not ganging up on you, Mr Holmes ...” Harry began.

“Yes we are,” Sarah interrupted her, then looked across at Mycroft again. “I don’t ever forget that you’re powerful and dangerous and could probably make both of us disappear if you were annoyed enough with us. But we’re not budging on this, so go ahead and disappear us if you have to.”

Mycroft grimaced, probably more at her appalling grammar than anything else, but then his face became still again while he looked at the two women in front of him for a long moment. Sarah gazed into his face and tried not to feel sick with nerves as the tension rose in the silence.

“Very well,” he finally said tiredly. “You may have a joint funeral service. Both bodies can be cremated and scattered together. _I_ will select the crematorium and memorial garden at which this will happen, but it will be within the boundaries of Greater London. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Sarah said numbly while Harry mumbled her own agreement. Sarah felt strange, as if her world had been knocked off balance. Were they _really_ going to win this? She could hear a dry voice in the back of her mind quietly advising her that something was wrong with this entire scenario. The voice sounded very much like Sherlock’s. She was still trying to work out what it was trying to tell her when Mycroft rolled his head on his neck slightly and then straightened up.

“Then I shall contact you again shortly with details of the location,” he told them. “May I leave the arrangements for the service to you?”

“Yes, we’ll deal with everything,” Sarah told him hurriedly before he could change his mind.

“I shall provide you both with a number where you can contact me with the funeral details,” he said, then directed a small and completely unconvincing smile at each of them. “Ms Watson,” he added, offering her his hand again. She shook it briefly and he turned to Sarah, leaning closer to her as she took his hand. “Well done,” he told her flatly, and she had no idea whether his tone was admiring or petulant. Before she had a chance to try and read his expression, he turned away and left the room.

The women stood silently side by side, not moving until they heard the downstairs door open and then slam closed again. Then Harry groaned briefly and wandered back across the room while blowing out a shocked breath. “Bloody hell,” she said as she slumped back down onto the sofa. “Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking.”

She smiled ruefully at Sarah, who felt a stab of sadness when she realised that the line which Harry had just quoted came from one of John’s favourite films. However, she returned her smile with a quirky one of her own.

“ _You_ should worry,” she told her. “I haven’t had a cigarette in twelve years, but I’d kill for one right now.”

She turned to the tray which Mrs Hudson had brought up, then looked over her shoulder at her newly-acquired partner in crime.

“So: tea?” she asked.

____________________________

Just over twelve weeks later Sarah stood at the gates to the crematorium and memorial gardens, her face full of memories. She had visited three times since the funerals but today the weather was practically identical to how it had been on that sad day, and she couldn’t help but re-visualise the arrival of the cortege and the ensuing scene which was now burned into her mind forever.

Sitting in the lead mourners’ car and following the two hearses containing the coffins, the vehicles had just rounded a corner and were driving along the road towards the crematorium gates when Harry swore viciously and leaned forward in her seat. Sarah had been gazing blankly out of the side window but turned to follow her gaze. The sight which greeted her tore her heart to pieces.

“Oh my God,” she whispered as her tears began to flow. Beside her, Harry was incandescent with fury but Sarah put her hand on her arm. “No, you don’t understand, it’s all right,” she said, but then her voice broke and she let out a sob. Unable to find the words to explain, she squeezed Harry’s arm reassuringly and looked out of the window again at the approaching scene.

On the grass verges on either side of the crematorium gates was a motley assortment of people. Numbering at least twenty-five, most of them were dressed scruffily, a couple of them were very grubby and two had dogs on string leads. Up until now they had been standing around or sitting on the grass talking to each other, but when they saw the approaching vehicles they all got to their feet, stubbing out cigarettes or brushing their clothes down as they walked over to the crematorium’s gates. Splitting into two roughly equal groups, they formed a line on either side of the entrance and then, as the hearses turned into the drive, they bowed their heads respectfully, apart from three of the men who came to attention and saluted.

“What are they _doing_?” Harry murmured in awe, her anger abating as the car drove past what could only be described as an honour guard.

“It’s Sherlock’s homeless network,” Sarah said, her voice choked as the tears continued to pour down her face. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to stay in the car and called out, “Please stop!” to the driver.

“I can’t,” he said. “I have to follow ...”

“Just for a moment!” she insisted. “I have to get out!”

The car pulled up and Sarah looked round at Harry. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised, then turned back to the driver. “Carry on without me,” she told him as she scrambled out.

The car pulled away again and she looked into the following vehicle as it drove past. Mycroft had declined the girls’ invitation to join them in the lead mourners’ car, opting to travel in the chauffeur driven limousine in which he had arrived. After looking at him for a long moment, Mrs Hudson had walked over to Sarah and whispered that she would ride with him if he would let her. Now, as his car passed by with the rear window wound down, Sarah could see that Mycroft’s head was bowed, his eyes were closed and he appeared to be as moved as she was by the gesture he had just witnessed. Mrs Hudson was quite simply in floods of tears. Sarah smiled sympathetically at them both and then turned and hurried back to the gates where the guard was still standing silently as the rest of the mourners’ cars turned into the grounds. When the last vehicle had passed them by, one of the ex-military men turned and tipped a salute to her. She gestured around the group.

“This ... I can’t believe you did this,” she said.

He smiled at her. “We knew the staff wouldn’t like us in the grounds – they’d probably call the police and ’ave us removed and we don’t wanna cause a fuss on a day like this. But we decided that we ’ad to pay our respects, so we came anyway.”

“Thank you,” Sarah whispered tearfully.

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he said simply. “Mr ’olmes was good to us, so we ’ad to give him a good send-off.” He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably. “Most of us walked ’ere – why did it ’ave to be so bleedin’ far away? More of us would ’ave come if it had been nearer.”

“His brother’s choice, I’m afraid,” Sarah told him. Then she put her arms around him and hugged him for a moment before looking round to include everyone in the group. “Thank you so much – from Sherlock _and_ John. They would be so proud.”

“It’s an honour, miss,” a young woman told her. “Now get yourself back inside.”

Smiling gratefully around the group again, Sarah turned and hurried up the drive to join the other mourners. By the time the funeral service had ended, the honour guard had disappeared.

____________________________

That had been three months ago, and everything had changed last night. Sarah shook the memories out of her head, turned towards the gates and lifted her chin. She knew what she had to do.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sarah had known that it would be a nightmare blagging her way into Mycroft’s office but she had hoped that it might be a little easier than this. As far as she could guess, she had been having this discussion with the gentlemen on the reception desk for at least fifteen minutes, and there was no sign of either of them relenting and picking up a phone. However, although two security men had arrived shortly after she had walked into the building, they were so far staying a long way from the desk and were just keeping an eye on her. She hoped that, provided she didn’t raise her voice or start showing any other signs of anger, they would simply continue their watching brief.

“He’s expecting me,” she said to the receptionists for the umpteenth time. “And no, I don’t have an appointment but believe me, he knows I’m here and he knew I was coming hours ago. I just need a few minutes with him, and I can’t leave until I’ve seen him.”

“Mr Holmes is in meetings all day,” one of the men told her yet again. His voice was becoming rather sing-song with the constant repetitions. “He cannot be disturbed and I am unable to let him know that you’re here.”

“He already _knows_ I’m here ...” Sarah started again but then looked round when an elegantly-dressed woman walked across to the desk and smiled at her politely.

“Doctor Sawyer, I’m Mr Holmes’ assistant,” she told her.

Sarah turned towards her, registering the BlackBerry which she held in one hand. “Are you Anthea?” she asked.

The woman’s eyes flickered briefly and she smiled fondly. “I was ‘not-Anthea’ to John, yes,” she said. Her gaze became reflective for a moment, then she turned her eyes to Sarah’s again. “So yes, do call me Anthea. But I’m afraid that under no circumstances will Mr Holmes be able to see you today. I’m sorry, but he really is too busy.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Sarah said and turned as if to leave the desk, then swung back towards not-Anthea while gesturing to the entrance. “I’m just going to sit on the steps outside and start howling loudly, and I’m not going to stop until the press arrive.”

She looked round warningly at the security men as they took a few steps towards her. “My friend already knows that if I don’t call her soon, she should start sending reporters here.”

“And what precisely would they report if you weren’t here?” asked Anthea calmly.

Sarah dipped her chin and peered over the top of her imaginary glasses at her. “I do know what this place is, you know,” she said. “Do you think Sherlock wouldn’t have told me during one of his many griping sessions about his brother? I know what it’s _supposed_ to be, I know what it really is, and I know that you don’t like attention from the press, so you can either have me dragged away and locked in a windowless room for the rest of eternity, or you can let me see Mycroft for a few minutes.”

She slowly took a step closer to Anthea, holding her hands out to her sides to make it clear that she wasn’t being physically threatening. “ _Please_ ,” she said quietly. “I’m not here to have a fight with him. I want to try and make amends, and it’ll take no more than five minutes but I absolutely _have_ to see him.” She gazed at the other woman, letting her see her desperation. “Please,” she said again.

Anthea studied her silently for what felt like at least an hour. Trying not to squirm, Sarah locked eyes with her and attempted to convey both her trustworthiness and her need.

Finally Anthea sighed.

____________________________

The previous day Sarah had been to Baker Street for an afternoon with Mrs Hudson. The older lady enjoyed writing letters and the two of them corresponded on a regular basis, Sarah always feeling a little guilty when – in response to Mrs Hudson’s carefully handwritten letters – she saved time by typing her own replies. Now at last she had found a free afternoon to pay a visit, and while it was painful to look up the stairs and remember the good times she had had in the upper flat, she still felt a comforting sense of coming home.

As Mrs Hudson led the way into her ground floor flat she told Sarah about her new tenants. They had answered her advertisement within twenty minutes of her card being pinned on the notice board at the local supermarket and had barely glanced around the flat before handing over the deposit in cash. She said they were a quiet couple who she didn’t see or even hear very often, but their rent always arrived on time and when she had taken a peek inside the living room about a week ago after they had gone out, the place was very tidy. She let out a trembling sigh as she filled the kettle and put it on the hob. “It’s not the same,” she said, “and I felt so guilty about it, but I didn’t have a choice but to let the flat out again. I needed the money, you see.” She took a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. “Mycroft came round and supervised the removal of everything that belonged to Sherlock and John, did you know?”

Sarah nodded. Harry had phoned her in some distress after receiving a call from Mycroft inviting her to the flat to look through John’s possessions. The girls had spent a long time arguing because Harry didn’t want to see or have any of her brother’s stuff and, despite Sarah offering to go with her or even in her place, Harriet had refused to budge on the issue. Sarah had tried without success to persuade her that she might regret her decision later, and she could only hope that Mycroft had put John’s property into storage somewhere in case Harry changed her mind in the future, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to phone him to ask.

Mrs Hudson made a pot of tea and toasted some currant buns for their lunch and they had a bitter-sweet afternoon reminiscing about the boys, laughing as they shared their experiences and feeling the inevitable sadness when they couldn’t help but let the conversation drift around to the funerals. Sarah spoke about how touched she had been by the actions of the homeless network, and Mrs Hudson sighed and reached up her sleeve again for her tissue.

“Mycroft was really moved when he saw them standing by the side of the road,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “He’d been so quiet all morning and when he wouldn’t ride in the car with you I was really worried about him. I thought he was angry with you girls after you made him agree to your plans for the funeral, but I thought it would be such a shame for him to drive to the service alone and that’s why I went with him.” She blew her nose and tucked her tissue away. “But then I realised that he wasn’t angry, just hurt that he couldn’t take his brother home.”

Sarah opened her mouth but Mrs Hudson hurried to reassure her.

“Oh no, I don’t mean you did the wrong thing. I don’t think even Mycroft feels that way any more. He really approved of John, you know, and he understood why you wanted them to be together. No, he wasn’t angry at all; he was just quiet and sad.”

She sighed and fell silent for a moment, but then giggled. “I think he was a lot more annoyed when I found him upstairs about a week later. This was before I re-let the flat. It was absolutely _pouring_ with rain and I was drenched when I got home, but I could hear someone moving about upstairs and thought it must be him, so I went up to check. Well ...” She put her hand over her mouth as she chuckled so hard that she couldn’t speak for several seconds. Finally she managed to pull herself together a little. “I never expected to find him standing there with no trousers on!”

Sarah gaped at her and then cracked up at the mental image. Mrs Hudson joined in her laughter but finally managed to tell the rest of the story.

“His car had broken down a couple of streets away and rather than wait for the replacement to arrive, he left his chauffeur and walked the rest of the way but it was so windy that even that big umbrella he always carries didn’t keep the rain off and his trousers got soaked, so when he realised I was out he let himself in and decided to take them off and dry them in front of the oven. He was so embarrassed when I walked in ...”

She disintegrated into giggles again. Sarah grinned at her.

“Oh, _please_ tell me he wears sock suspenders,” she begged. “I can just imagine him wearing them.”

Mrs Hudson straightened her face and tried to look prim. “I will never tell,” she said but the twinkle in her eye set them both giggling once more.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly and Sarah was surprised when she glanced at the clock and realised how late it was getting. The women bade each other a fond farewell and Sarah promised to visit again soon and then made her way to the Tube station.

The dry voice in the back of her mind which sounded like Sherlock first began murmuring to her during the journey home, prompting her over and over again to remember something important. However, it wasn’t until she had got home, had a shower and some dinner and was sitting on the sofa watching the late evening news and idly reflecting on her visit that she suddenly sat bolt upright, flailed around for the remote control to mute the volume on the television and then stared blankly at the wall for several minutes. As the voice urged her onwards and her thoughts began to fall into place, her eyes widened and she got to her feet, walked calmly to her windowless bathroom and shut herself in while she sobbed, shouted furiously but totally silently at herself in the mirror and eventually ended up sitting on the floor in the corner of the room with her arms wrapped around her head, barely able to cope with the thoughts which continued to bombard her. It was a long time before she was able to pull herself together, wash her face, bathe her eyes and leave the bathroom, and she went straight to bed and pulled the duvet up over her head. She had no idea whether she was being monitored after all these months – and if so, whether it was by the good guys or the bad guys or how much monitoring was involved. All that mattered was that they didn’t see just how distressed she was.

The next morning she got up early, ate a quick breakfast and then left the flat and began her journey to the memorial gardens.

____________________________

Sarah had been shown into Mycroft’s office twenty-seven minutes ago. The security men had made a big point of carefully searching her handbag and demanding that she take off her jacket so that they could go through its pockets. She knew that she wouldn’t even have been allowed into the building if they had suspected that she might be carrying anything dangerous and so the search was simply an attempt to unnerve her. She didn’t bother explaining to them that after almost a year of living in the Holmes-verse – not to mention the revelations she had had the previous night – she was way past the point of being unnerved by much that happened to her, and she had submitted to the searches without protest.

Finally one of the security men led her along several interminable corridors, walking too quickly and making her trot to keep up with him. She scampered along behind him without complaint and eventually he opened an office door and stood aside for her to enter the room. It was entirely the wrong shape for a one-person office – long and narrow and with a dark wooden desk placed about halfway along its length. The room was not well lit, the illumination coming from standard lamps in the corners of the room and from desk lamps rather than overhead lighting and therefore leaving the centre of the room rather gloomy. All other furniture around the walls was equally dark and imposing and Sarah realised that this room had been designed for just one purpose: to make any visitor feel uncomfortable. This was confirmed by the single chair in front of the desk to which the man gestured her. Although it was well padded, the back curved in such a way that it wouldn’t support you properly if you leaned back and the arms were too high and would probably put an awkward strain on your shoulders after a while. She suppressed a snort as she sat down and serenely looked up at the security man.

“Mr Holmes will be with you when he’s free,” he told her. “Please wait here.”

He turned and left the room without waiting for her reply. She hadn’t intended to give him one anyway. Instead she settled down as comfortably as she could in the chair and waited quietly, resisting any temptation to fidget or to try to shift into a better position. She was utterly certain that she was being watched on camera and she was determined to outwait her observers, even though she occasionally had to bite back a smile when her evil side nudged her to get up and deliberately start rifling through the papers on the desk just to see what would happen. Before she could succumb to the urge, Mycroft finally came in and closed the door behind him, then walked across to his desk with his eyes fixed on an open folder which he was carrying. Ignoring her, he walked over to the front of his desk and stood with his back to her, continuing to read – or pretend to read – his file.

“Sarah,” he said without looking round. “How nice to see you again. Do excuse me one minute more.”

Sarah fought back the desire to comment that he hadn’t seen her _yet_ and just waited patiently. At long last he put down the folder, turned around to face her, leaned back against the desk and folded his arms.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

____________________________

Four hours earlier Sarah had walked through the gates of the memorial garden and made her way to the place where John’s and Sherlock’s ashes had been scattered. She was remembering Harry’s face when the two of them had first visited the spot a few days after the funeral service; her lip curled when she saw how the two non-religious sets of remains had nevertheless been laid into cross shapes, but then her eyes widened and she clutched at Sarah’s arm. “Oh, _look_ ,” she breathed. “ _Look_ at them.”

Sarah had looked more closely and then battled to swallow her tears yet again. Whether it was coincidence or had been deliberately done, perhaps at Mycroft’s instruction, the crosses had been arranged in such a way that one was lower than the other and the shapes were so close to each other that the horizontal bars slightly overlapped. The gap between the bars was less than a centimetre.

“Still guarding each other,” she had said softly to Harry. “So close together that you can’t crowbar them apart.”

And now, twelve weeks later, she let her tears fall while she talked to the faded shapes, mumbling a quiet stream of consciousness as she told them her thoughts, talking softly enough that she couldn’t be overheard and ignoring the sympathetic glances she got from other visitors to the garden, and then finally she tilted her head upwards as she murmured, “I’m sorry; I’m so, so sorry,” into the sky. Looking down at the inter-linked shapes once more, she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and then walked back to the gates, fishing her phone from her bag and dialling as soon as she got outside.

“Harry, it’s me,” she said. “Sorry I’ve not seen you in a bit. You know what it’s like – work and everything ...”

Harry reassured her that she understood. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then Sarah got to the point.

“I’m outside the memorial gardens,” she told her. “I’ve just visited the boys, and I’ve realised something that I should have known ages ago.” She drew in a breath. “Harry, we were _awful_ to Mycroft. I’m not saying that we were wrong – there was no way we could let him take Sherlock away but we really did trample all over him and didn’t even let him talk. He must have been just as distraught as we were – actually, he might have felt even _worse_ ...”

She listened to Harry’s snort before explaining her thinking.

“What I mean is that Mycroft might have been able to save them if only he’d been tracking them a bit more closely. We’ll probably never know and I’m definitely never going to ask him, but he must have felt guilty about not being able to prevent them being killed, and then on top of that he had the grief itself, and then we charged in and wouldn’t even let him take his brother to his family’s vault. Imagine if it had been the other way round and Mycroft had barged in and told you that you couldn’t bury John where you wanted to.”

Harry mumbled something indecipherable.

“I’ve known Mycroft longer than you, Harry,” Sarah told her, “and he was so _sad_ at the funeral. That sounds like a stupid thing to say but he was so ... distant from everyone else. We took his brother away from the rest of his family and we didn’t even make much effort to include him as part of _our_ family – the friends and relatives of John and Sherlock.”

“ _You_ did,” Harry retorted, “and he just blanked you.”

“Is it any wonder?” Sarah asked as she lifted her head resolutely. “I can’t leave it like this. I’m going to go and see Mycroft and try to apologise. He probably won’t want to listen, but I’m damned well going to make him.”

“Good luck with that,” Harry told her sarcastically. “He’ll probably have you taken out and shot. Seriously, Sarah, can’t you just leave it alone?”

“No, I can’t,” Sarah replied. “I’m going to Mycroft’s office right now, and I’ll stage a sit-in if I have to, but I’m not leaving until he sees me.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry said. “Well, if you haven’t rung me by five o’clock tonight, shall I send out the search parties, or should I just light a candle in your memory?”

“Thanks for the support,” Sarah said, smiling a little.

“I don’t mean it, you know that,” Harry reassured her. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No,” Sarah replied. “I mean, yes, I _would_ like you to, but I have to do this alone. The last time you and I faced him we just upset him, so it’s best if I go on my own.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a nightmare trying to get in, but I’m not going to give up. I need to do this, Harry.”

“Well, good luck,” Harry told her. “Just don’t get yourself arrested. I may be saving a fortune by not buying booze but I still can’t afford to bail you out.” She giggled. “But I’ll come and visit you in prison ... if it’s a nice day.”

“You’re so sweet,” Sarah retorted, and Harry laughed again before warning her to be careful and promising to ring the press if she hadn’t heard from her by the evening. They said their goodbyes and Sarah put away her phone and headed back to the nearest bus stop.

____________________________

“I’ve treated you horribly,” she told Mycroft. “We used to be friends and then I walked all over you and refused to take your wishes into consideration. I want to tell you how sorry I am.”

Mycroft’s expression was unreadable as he gazed steadily down at her. “You made rather a fuss at reception simply to deliver an apology, don’t you think?” he asked. “Did you not consider phoning and making an appointment, or asking if you could see me outside office hours? I’ve had to postpone an important meeting with an ambassador in order to have this conversation and I had rather been hoping that your reason for wanting to talk was somewhat more essential.”

Fighting off the urge to shuffle her feet and mumble, ‘Sorry, sir,’ Sarah kept her head up and held his eyes. “Apologies are never easy,” she told him, “and I’m more than likely to make an idiot of myself and start crying or something while I’m trying to make amends. I imagine that you’re monitored pretty much wherever you go and I don’t want to embarrass you, so I figured that this office must be the most secure place in the whole of the UK.” She paused, then added, “Actually, it’s probably the most secure room in the entire Commonwealth.”

She risked a brief smile at him but his demeanour didn’t change. Instead he straightened up, walked over to the window near his desk and looked out at the view.

“I really am extraordinarily busy today,” he said in a disinterested tone, not bothering to turn and look at her. “And while I’m sure you feel that any apology can’t possibly wait, it really would be helpful if we could bring this conversation to an end as soon as convenient so that I can get back to work.”

“Mycroft, _please_ ,” Sarah breathed, her face full of pain.

He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a short contrite smile before turning away again. “None of this is necessary, Sarah,” he said. “We were all under stress at the time, and you and Harriet did what you thought was necessary. It happened several months ago and nothing can be done to change any of the events. Perhaps it would be better simply to move on and to put that tragic time behind us.”

Sarah sighed heavily and looked up at him. She genuinely did miss their occasional lunches and regretted the way that their tentative friendship had disintegrated over the past few months.

“I need to get this off my chest, Mycroft,” she told him sadly. “Let me say this to you, and then we can go our separate ways again.”

Mycroft didn’t turn towards her, continuing to look out of the window, but his body language indicated that he had relaxed a little. His chin dropped an inch or two, a conciliatory nod giving her permission to speak. Sarah drew in a slow breath, forcing herself not to tense up, and then fired the question at him.

“ _Where are John and Sherlock_?”

Mycroft flinched. It was such a tiny movement that if she hadn’t been looking for it she would never have seen it. But Sarah _had_ been looking for it, and now she felt like she was being electrocuted as a surge of emotion shot through her. Before Mycroft could react further she sat forward and spoke quickly.

“Actually, I withdraw that question immediately. It’s the one question that you can’t and _mustn’t_ answer. So I take that back and replace it with this one: _are they together_?”

Mycroft finally turned around. His face was calm as he looked at her thoughtfully. She smiled back at him humourlessly and said, “And now you’re wondering whether you can have me killed without John and Sherlock killing _you_ when they find out.” She watched as his eyes narrowed momentarily, and she promptly added, “Or you’re wondering whether you should be a little less drastic and just have me detained under the Mental Health Act and locked away securely until it’s safe to let me out again.”

“The only reason I’m considering your mental health is because you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Mycroft began but Sarah held up a hand to stop him.

“I’m not here on a fishing trip,” she said. “I’m not guessing, and I’m not even _hoping_. I _know_ they’re alive, Mycroft. And the only reason I risked everything – including my freedom – to come here and confront you is because I need to know that they’re together. Because if you’ve separated them for their own safety, then you’re killing them far better than the explosion didn’t.”

Mycroft grimaced as she once again mangled the English language, but then looked at her sternly. “Please, Sarah, you have to stop this nonsense immediately. I’m sure you wish that they were alive – as do we all – but you know it can’t be true. Why would you ever think that it was so?”

“Because you told me,” Sarah said calmly.

“Don’t be absurd ...” Mycroft started, but Sarah interrupted him.

“You told me on the day you met me and Harry at the flat. You told me again on the day of the funerals. And, actually, when I come to think of it, you told me just now as well.” She pursed her lips disparagingly as he looked at her with mild curiosity. “The only reason I didn’t hear you before was because I wasn’t paying attention. But Mrs Hudson made me realise what I wasn’t noticing and I’ve been kicking myself ever since.”

She raised her head and locked her gaze more firmly onto his face.

“ _You_ told me they’re alive, Mycroft, and I’m asking you again: _are they together_?”

* * *

_(“Very well,” Mycroft said tiredly. “You may have a joint funeral service. Both bodies can be cremated and scattered together.”)_

_(Mrs Hudson blew her nose and tucked her tissue away. “But then I realised that he wasn’t angry,” she said, “just hurt that he couldn’t take his brother home. He wasn’t angry at all. He was just quiet and sad.”)_

_(Harry’s lip curled when she saw how the two non-religious sets of remains had nevertheless been laid into cross shapes.)_

* * *

“You would _never_ have handed over your brother’s body to us,” Sarah told Mycroft. “Good grief, you would have fought the entire police force if they had insisted on keeping him much longer, and you certainly would never have given in to two women who simply had an over-emotional desire to keep him and his best friend together. Your family tradition must be far more important to you than that and I don’t know if you would even have allowed John’s body to be buried with him, but you absolutely would not have let us take Sherlock away.”

Her voice was starting to shake as she really began to believe the truth herself for the first time. “But more than that, you weren’t _angry_ enough, Mycroft. Someone had killed your brother. You should have been raging; you should have been throwing things around and screaming blue murder.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Not literally,” she said. “You’re a Holmes – you would never have shown any obvious sign of how you were feeling when you were with other people, but nobody should have been able to look you in the eye without flinching. You should have been absolutely furious and visibly bottling up all that anger inside, but you were far too calm. And even just now when I asked where they are: if they were dead you would have been really angry at me for asking such a stupid question.”

She raised a trembling hand and pointed to herself.

“I didn’t put it all together until last night,” she told him. “I had been too busy grieving and missing the boys to think straight. But yesterday I went to see Mrs Hudson and when she mentioned how you’d been sad at the funeral rather than angry, it all started to come together in my head. I remembered how you’d been that day, and how you were at the flat with Harry and me, and then it suddenly all started to make sense.”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change, so she had no clue whether he was ever going to relent and tell her the truth. She pressed on regardless.

“So I went to the memorial gardens this morning, as you know ...” She paused for a moment in the hope of a nod of confirmation but he didn’t move. “I needed there to be a good reason why I would come here to your office. I don’t know whether Moriarty’s people are still keeping an eye on me, but if I came to visit you after all this time it might look suspicious. I needed to make a big deal out of it; needed to make myself look like a silly girl coming over all emotional and sad and pathetic. I thought that if I went there and cried in the gardens and then stood outside and had a phone conversation with Harry and told her that I was going to come here and insist on apologising to you, then it wouldn’t raise Moriarty’s suspicions so much _and_ it would alert you that I was coming.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I figured that you’d picked that particular crematorium because it must be the easiest to keep surveillance on,” Sarah continued. “There’s a CCTV camera just outside the gates but I’m sure you’ve got other cameras hidden all over the place as well. Anyway, I stood at the gates while I was talking to Harry, made sure I was facing the camera and said your name every other sentence and hoped that your people were watching so that you’d get the message that I was coming. But while I was in the gardens talking to the ashes I realised that they were a clue as well. You don’t _have_ to scatter them in a cross if you don’t want to, but you’d had them scattered in cross shapes even though John and Sherlock weren’t religious – so the ashes obviously weren’t theirs.” She shook her head ruefully. “Sherlock will never forgive me for taking so long to work it out.”

She sighed shakily. “I’m assuming that the boys actually were caught in the explosion,” she continued, “and I’m guessing they were injured. What I’m most worried about is whether you thought it was safest to separate them while they were still unconscious and take them to different locations so that they wouldn’t attract so much attention.” She gazed up at him imploringly. “If they _are_ injured, they really need to be together. If Sherlock can’t be out investigating and tracking down Moriarty, and if he can’t even work with Greg and the rest of the police, he’ll be going insane with frustration and boredom. The only person who stands a chance of keeping him calm is John, and if John’s elsewhere and knows that Sherlock’s going crazy without him, _he’ll_ be going mad too. Mycroft, please, I have to know. Tell me you let them stay together.”

Mycroft looked at her for a long while, his expression still unreadable. Finally he turned and walked over to his desk, picked up the phone and spoke a six digit code into the mouthpiece before hanging up again. Sarah looked at him nervously, wondering whether this was the summons for security men to come in and make her disappear forever, but he met her gaze and gave her a small smile in what she hoped was meant to be a reassuring way. Walking around the desk he took up his original position leaning against the table, folded his arms once more and looked down at the floor for a moment, then he sighed and raised his head again.

“Yes, they’re together,” he told her.

____________________________

As the sun shone down on her in the memorial gardens, Sarah let her tears fall as she gazed at the inter-linked and faded crosses on the ground in front of her. “I don’t know who you are,” she murmured softly, her lips barely moving. “I don’t know whether you were there at the factory, or whether he found you somewhere else. You might even have been responsible for setting the explosives – in which case you got what you deserved – but if you were just victims of the explosion, then I hope that you’re able to rest peacefully. Mycroft’s going to do everything he can to find the man who was responsible – and so are John and Sherlock.”

She smiled very briefly. “I don’t actually know what’ll be worse for him – Mycroft getting to him first, or the boys. Whichever, it’s going to be bad for him, and he’s going to deserve every miserable moment. If Moriarty did this to you, then I promise you that he will pay.”

She gazed down at the faded shapes in silence for a while and then her eyes widened. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she whispered to herself as the last clue fell into place. “ _That’s_ why they’re in cross shapes.”

She closed her eyes for a second. “Why didn’t I realise that before?” she asked herself softly. “Sherlock, I’m an idiot and you’re never going to forgive me for being so slow.”

She raised her head, murmuring, “I’m sorry; I’m so, so sorry,” more loudly into the sky as if to project the words to wherever Sherlock and John were hidden, then looked down at the shapes one last time before wiping her eyes, blowing her nose and walking back to the gates, fishing her phone from her bag as she went.

____________________________

“Yes, they’re together,” Mycroft told her.

Sarah put a hand over her mouth and allowed herself one sob before fiercely pulling herself together and lifting her eyes to his. “Tell me what you can,” she said.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably against the desk. “The code which I just spoke into the telephone has shut down all surveillance of this room for the next ten minutes,” he told her. “After that the surveillance will begin again whether or not we have finished this conversation. I trust my own people implicitly but in case anybody else in this organisation _is_ in the employ of James Moriarty, it’s best that the shutdown lasts as briefly as possible to avoid staff gossip. I will tell you as much as I deem it safe for you to know ...” He paused and grimaced ruefully. “Although I don’t think it’s safe for you to know _anything_.”

“I realised last night that they hadn’t been killed,” Sarah said, “but I haven’t been dancing around the streets or even in my own flat singing, ‘They’re alive, they’re alive,’ and I didn’t give the slightest hint to Harry about what I know. I haven’t quite worked out specifically why they’ve gone into hiding, but I know it has to be for their own safety and I realise that I can’t tell anyone – not even her – that they’re not dead.”

“They’ve gone into hiding for _your_ safety, Sarah,” Mycroft told her sternly. “For your safety, for Harriet’s, and for everyone who has any kind of friendship with them – Mrs Hudson, even their friends in the police.”

“Does Greg know they’re alive?” Sarah asked.

“Nobody in the police does,” Mycroft replied. “Apart from myself and my people – and now you – nobody knows.” 

He looked pointedly at his watch.

“I’m shutting up,” Sarah said. “Please, I’m just going to listen to whatever you’re able to tell me.” She made herself sit back and clasped her shaking hands together in her lap. Apparently noticing her distress, Mycroft unfolded his arms and reached behind him, placing his hands onto the table. As he pulled his feet off the ground and sat fully on the edge of the desk he not only looked less intimidating but he suddenly appeared younger and more vulnerable, and the strain of the last few months’ events began to show on his face as he started to speak.


	5. Chapter 5

Sarah’s assumption that Mycroft’s people hadn’t been keeping a close enough eye on Sherlock was wrong. A _Grade 3 Active_ surveillance status meant that a team was always close by, tracking his movements, monitoring his phone calls and internet usage and – wherever possible – being one step ahead of him to ensure that he wasn’t about to endanger his life. The team had found themselves trailing behind him on the night that he and John went to the empty factory simply because Sherlock had found the vital clue in a newspaper rather than through electronic means, and their need to remain covert had meant that they were still searching for the best surveillance point when the building exploded.

After calling for a dedicated rescue crew and setting up an exclusion zone around the area, two members of the team ignored their standing orders and made their way into the rubble to conduct an initial search and were fortunate to find Sherlock and John quickly. One of them was carefully clearing the worst of the debris covering Sherlock when he regained consciousness and despite his pain insisted on speaking to Mycroft urgently. All attempts to get him to remain still only resulted in him becoming more agitated and distressed, and finally one of the team phoned Mycroft and held his mobile to Sherlock’s ear while the brothers held a frantic conversation in which Sherlock insisted that it was essential that he came out of the building dead. Moriarty was clearly determined to prevent him from interfering any further in his work and had now gone beyond the point of threats and deliberate near misses. Sherlock knew that if he survived this attempt to kill him and was put under even greater protection by his well-meaning brother, Moriarty would use other means to persuade him to lose interest – and the most likely target would be John.

“He’s not just going to strap a bomb to John next time,” Sherlock said into the phone, whining in agony through gritted teeth as the surveillance team member gently tried to support his shattered left leg. “A sniper is going to shoot him in the head right in front of me. Either that, or they’ll target someone who we both know – Sarah or Harriet, or even Mrs Hudson. I’m a threat to everyone who knows me. I have to be taken out dead. It’s the only way I can protect everybody else, and it will leave me with greater freedom to hunt down Moriarty. Get this done, Mycroft.”

His brother’s reluctant agreement was interrupted by a nonchalant comment of, “Make that two bodies,” from John who had been lying nearby with his eyes closed while failing to mention that he wasn’t quite as unconscious as everyone thought. An insane three-way debate broke out until John firmly told the other two that he outright refused to stay behind and pretend to mourn his friend’s death.

While Sherlock continued to argue with John – a dispute which John spectacularly won by lapsing back into unconsciousness – Mycroft’s organisational skills were sorely tested as he put his brother’s idea into action. A medical team dressed as demolition experts was smuggled into the ruins and they stabilised the injured men as best they could while another group masquerading as the forensic team liaised with the police – who were kept out of the building on safety grounds – and finally brought out what they claimed to be the bodies of Sherlock and John. This wasn’t as difficult as initially planned because the teams found the remains of two other people in the debris and, drawing as much attention to themselves as possible for the benefit of onlookers, took them out in multiple body bags just as Mycroft arrived to make a fuss and be loudly angry with anyone who came near him. It was several hours later and long after most of the investigating authorities had left for the night that the boys were smuggled out hidden in skips which appeared to be full of rubble before being rushed to a private hospital.

The explosion had dismembered and badly burned the unknown bodies and therefore no excuse was needed to avoid Harry being asked to attempt to identify her brother’s body by sight. The two sets of remains were kept under close guard by Mycroft’s forensic team and were carefully contaminated with DNA from Sherlock and John before samples were sent out for testing, thereby receiving confirmation of the required identities by independent sources. The need for closed-coffin funerals was obvious; and cautious enquiries around the site of the explosion eventually concluded that the two people unwittingly caught up in Moriarty’s latest attempt to end the life of his nemesis had been homeless people who had intended to sleep in the factory that night. It had been pure coincidence that they were closer to the explosive device than Sherlock and John when it detonated.

____________________________

“Oh my God,” Sarah said numbly. “That’s why you were so upset when you saw the homeless network at the gates. They didn’t know it, but they were honouring their own people.”

Mycroft looked at her tiredly. “I was moved on two accounts: yes, they were unwittingly standing honour guard over two of their own, but also they had walked all that way to honour my brother. I chose that particular location because it was somewhere we could set up full hidden surveillance in case James Moriarty should ever choose to visit and gloat, but I could never have anticipated that Sherlock’s network would travel so far and make such an unforgettable gesture in his memory. I had spent two weeks playing the role of a grieving brother, but at that moment I genuinely did feel his loss.”

He sighed and looked down briefly. “For security reasons, I am not permitted to contact Sherlock as frequently as I would like.” He lifted his gaze to her again. “Their medical team sends me regular updates but I find it difficult not being able to speak with him and reassure myself as to his and John’s welfare.”

“How are they?” Sarah asked softly.

“Their injuries are severe, but their doctors believe that they’ll both make a good recovery in time,” Mycroft said. “John sustained abrasions and burns to both legs and is walking with a cane again but he has the very best physiotherapists working with him and I’m assured that he will eventually be able to dispose of it again. He has a great deal of scarring on his back where the explosion caught him; surgeons have already given him some skin grafts and he will need further treatment.” His mouth twitched momentarily. “Apparently he is far more indignant about the hair that was burned from the back of his head, even though it is starting to grow back satisfactorily.”

Sarah shivered. “They were that close to the explosion, then?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m informed that they are very fortunate to be as unscathed as they are, all things considered. The force of the explosion was such that they could have been far more badly injured. It helped that the roof fell in at an angle and didn’t crush them, and that they managed to avoid most of the falling debris.”

The dry voice was murmuring in Sarah’s mind again but she ignored it for the moment, aware that there wasn’t much time before the surveillance was switched back on. “How’s Sherlock?” she asked.

“His left leg was broken in eight places when he fell awkwardly and the bones have had to be pinned together,” Mycroft told her. “He is still using crutches but again the doctors believe he will make an excellent recovery and should be fully mobile in time.” Again he gave her a brief smile. “You can imagine how impatient he is to start his hunt for Moriarty, and he is finding his current lack of mobility most irritating. He also had numerous cuts and bruises, mostly caused by falling masonry, some burns which are healing well, and he will have a few small, barely noticeable scars on his face caused by flying debris. He was less injured than John because ...”

He faltered and the dry voice prompted Sarah to confirm what it had already been suggesting. “He was less injured because John put himself between Sherlock and the explosion and pushed him to safety,” she said.

Mycroft lowered his head and took a shuddering breath. Sarah had never seen him this close to falling apart, and she absolutely understood how he felt. It was no surprise to her that John would so nobly and selflessly endanger himself to protect someone else, but Mycroft was probably less emotionally aware of how someone other than himself would be prepared to make such a sacrifice for his brother. Automatically she started to reach towards him but he raised his head and stood up, back in control of himself. Walking around the desk, he put his hand onto the phone and looked at her.

“There’s nothing much more that I can tell you,” he said. “If you have any further questions, ask them quickly. Once I reinstate the standard surveillance of this room I shall be asking you to leave, and we shall not see each other again until such a time as it is safe for Sherlock and John to come home.”

Sarah was aware that later in the day she would think of a thousand things that she ought to have been asking but right now only one question occurred to her and it was a pretty stupid one. “ _Can_ they ever come home?” she asked.

“Once I or my brother have tracked down and dealt with James Moriarty, they can come back,” Mycroft told her. “If they wish to return to Baker Street, I am keeping the flat for them. The couple who purport to be the new tenants are in my employ and they stay there just frequently enough to prevent Mrs Hudson from becoming suspicious.” His fingers tightened on the phone and he looked at her more urgently. “Sarah ...”

“Switch it on,” she told him flatly. The energetic buzz that she had been feeling ever since she had made her staggering realisation last night was beginning to fade, and she knew that even her euphoria at having her beliefs confirmed wasn’t likely to prevent another sobbing bout in the bathroom later that evening.

Mycroft looked at her closely as if to reassure himself that she could be trusted with the knowledge which she held. “It’s up to you to protect their safety,” he told her, “and it will become harder not to talk to anybody as time goes on.”

“I know,” she said with a tired sigh, then raised her eyes to his again. “But they’re _alive_ ,” she added fiercely. “It’s all that matters.”

She nodded to the phone. “Switch it on,” she told him again.

“You’re a brave woman, Sarah Sawyer,” Mycroft said to her. “I wish we could spend more time together.”

“We will once they’re home,” she promised him.

Holding her gaze, Mycroft lifted the phone and spoke another code into it. Replacing the handset, he walked around the desk as she pushed herself to her feet and wobbled slightly after having sat for so long in the uncomfortable chair. He gave her an apologetic smile, then offered her his hand to shake. Without hesitation she took a step to her right, bypassed his hand, walked closer to him and put her arms around his neck to give him a brief tight hug. As she released her grip she turned her head and breathed into his ear, “Take care of them.” Pulling back until just her hands were resting on his shoulders, she looked into his eyes and added softly, “And take care of yourself.”

Mycroft nodded, either unable or unwilling to say anything in return, and Sarah turned around and walked to the door. Opening it, she glanced back but he was already facing away from her and picking up a folder from the desk. Sadly she walked out into the corridor and followed the security man back to the reception, noting absently that this time he escorted her at a more comfortable pace. He walked her to the front entrance and held the door open, gesturing out to the street where a black cab was idling.

“The taxi will take you wherever you wish to go, ma’am,” he told her politely. “The fare is already paid.”

“Thank you,” she said as she walked out of the building, and he released the door behind her and turned away. She stood on the steps for a long moment as her tears started, and she did nothing to stop them. Even if Moriarty’s people were watching her, it was perfectly appropriate for her to be upset: it would be clear that whether or not her apology had been accepted, her friendship with Mycroft Holmes had come to an end.

And so as her tears continued to fall, Sarah climbed into the taxi, went back to her flat and began the long wait.

 

____________________________

 

Three years later, battle-scarred and exhausted but with a fierce triumph in their eyes, Sarah’s boys came home to her.

 

* * *

* * *

Author’s Note:

Back in October 2011, during the course of a mad giggly afternoon in the bar of London’s National Theatre with Mirith Griffin, Anarion and Atlin Merrick, we came up with three phrases which we agreed to each include in future fics. The first was “When an army doctor and a consulting detective love each other very much ...”; the second was “A Doctor on the Brain, geddit?”; and then a few days later we realised that none of us could remember what the third one was. However, Atlin later found a piece of paper on which she had written, “Courting is over – let’s get down to business” and emailed asking if that was the third line. None of us could remember for certain but we agreed that it would have to do.

It was only a few days after I finished first publishing _Courting is Over_ on Livejournal that Anarion incorporated that third phrase into a 221B story, and that was pretty much the first time it even dawned on me that the phrase ends with a ‘b’ word, which rather left me sitting and looking tiredly at the massive thing I had just written and wondering where I had gone wrong ...

But undeterred by that, I went on to write a (much shorter) sequel! This was mostly brought about by plaintive comments from certain people on Livejournal in relation to me having the _nerve_ to pair up John with a woman, followed by demands that I rectify this immediately! So if, like certain people ( _looks fondly in the direction of[Chocolamousse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolamousse)_ ), you struggled through this story but urgently need a sequel which corrects my terrible sin of writing het(!), [Courting Unending](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4652808/) might make you feel better.

I can’t now remember in which of their many fics Anarion and Atlin included the prompt line, but Mirith put hers in her scorching [Control, Alt, Delete](http://archiveofourown.org/works/423109/) and if you haven’t yet read that, then you haven’t lived.

And now I’m thinking that I might also repost the other two fics which resulted from that crazy afternoon in the National ...


End file.
